Cry
by we all can
Summary: Italy needs help with something and who does he call? England, of course. Mpreg warning, but nothing major. GerIta and hinted USUK. Don't really like the pairing myself but inspiration called upon it.
1. Chapter 1

"_Hey, England_," questioned Italy uncertainly as the other european country picked up the phone. England was confused, normally Italy- both of them- steered clear of his path, only wishing him be gone, so why was Northern Italy calling him at this ungodly hour.

"Good morning, Italy." He yawned, covering his mouth with the free hand in an effort to muffle it from the ears of the Medditeranian country. He heard a door of some sort closing, and from the crickets in the background, it was either the front or back door. It was silent for a bit before he inquired, "May I ask why you are calling at," he looked toward this watch, lifting his wrist that had previously covered his mouth to check. "4 o'clock in the morning?"

A flurry of apologies sounded through the speakers, fervent, teary Italian confusing him greatly. "Hey, hey, hey, no need to be sorry. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it." It was then he realized what he'd said, and tried to backtrack. "Within reason, of course." The cries ceased, only small sniffles remaining as the Italian tried to form a complete sentence.

"_Ca-a-n y-ou p-p-lea-se c-ome ov-er to Ge-ger-man-y's hou-se, I ne-ed you-r he-lp wi-th some-thing_," he hiccupped. England mimicked breathing deeply, and he did the same, calming with each passing breath. "_There's a key under the mat that unlocks the back door. Germany and Prussia are gone for the week, so it's just me and Gilbird._" A cheep was heard in the background followed by a coo from the Italian before the other line clicked and the call ended. Setting his cellphone- an old flip phone- down on the wooden coffee table, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. A grin suddenly spread across his face as he changed out of his pajamas and into an old T-shirt America had left in his closet, the American flag proudly blazing on the front. He paid no mind to the painful reminder that America wasn't a colony anymore; if anything he seemed overjoyed by it.

_**Perhaps Italy needs comfort? He did seem quite upset on the phone... then again it could've been the bad connection**_, he pondered the fact for a moment before grabbing a pair of dark skinny jeans, not even caring that they were almost a size too large. _**Guess I've lost some weight. Probably because I resolved never again to eat anything that came from America. Do his people just dump fat into their food or something?**_ He felt a small thrill of accomplishment flow through him, like warm milk and honey. _**I could act like Italy's older brother.**_ The realization hit him suddenly as he walked to the coat hanger, a small smile growing on his face as he thought of the possibilities. He grabbed his only form of communication with the outside world, pulling on his jacket and rushing through the door, not even caring that it was raining, the sky dull and colorless.

He stuck out like a sore thumb, what with the pants from his punk days and the flag of his former colony shining brightly on his cheast like a beakon. He wore a bright and joyful smile that rivaled even Spain's._** Finally, I get to be a big brother again.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Cravings were a real bitch. Feliciano buried his head in the soft pillow, groaning softly as the nausea settled in. The small yellow bird cheeped mournfully as he lurched upwards, grabbing the trashcan that sat beside the bed, retching violently. He wished England would hurry. _**Maybe he changed his mind about helping me**_, he thought as another round of vomit splashed into the plastic can, his eyes stinging painfully as the morning sickness finally went away.

He slowly sat up, mindful that he could once again throw up all the contents of his stomach. The door unlocked as he made it into a sitting postition, Germany's oversized shirt hanging of his slim frame. He blinked tiredly as he stepped out of the room, Gilbird landing in his hair, pulling on one of the strands of hair, very upset that he had been ignored so easily. Wincing, Italy apologized, "Sorry, Gilbird. It's a little hard to pay attention to you and worry about throwing up."

The bird nuzzled his scalp in forgiveness. It knew how much the unborn hatchling was stressing the Italian, and was willing to help all it could but he was used to at least one person's full attention on him. He walked out of he and Germany's- because he never slept in his own- room, feet making small padding sounds as he entered the kitchen, resisting the urge to yawn as he tiredly greeted the United Kingdom.

"Glad you finally decided to show up, bastard," he said impatiently, reminding the fellow European country scarily of Romano, who had demonstrated his power over the powerful empire deep inside Spain when France made a few... advancements toward the Italian. A sad expression suddenly made its way across the normally cheerful male's face, his eyes opening for one of the few times England had witnessed. They were a gorgeous golden color, akin to that of honey mixed with caramel, and filled with tears.

As he was suddenly enveloped in a teary hug, the shaky sobs traveling to his own body making it quiver with each breath Italy took. He awkwardly patted the other nation's shivering back, confidence wavering as his shirt steadily grew wet with the accessive amount of tears. _**Please don't tell me he has as many tears as Venice does water**_, he prayed as he stared up at the ceiling. Finally the emotional Italian released him from his coils, smiling sheepishly when he saw the stains on England's shirt.

Remembering why he called the English man in the first place. He looked down, seemingly embarassed. "Thank you for coming. I just need your help for one tiny thing." He hoped to God that England wouldn't react badly. "The recipe for your scones." When he recieved no answer, he looked up, expecting England to reject the idea immediately, but was pleasently surprised when he recieved a dazed nod, along with a dopey smile.

_**Someone actually**_** wants **_**to eat my cooking?**_ The thought didn't comprehend with his brain, like saying the royal family was a bunch of overgrown snakes. It made no sense whatsoever. He was led to the refridgerator, and reality came crashing down. _Someone actually wanted his food?_ He snapped back to the present when an innocently inquiring hand shook his shoulder, and hurriedly got out the ingrediates. This was his time to shine.


End file.
